


Cappuccino and Bacon Rolls

by Berty



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn't know you. He doesn't remember you. He's forgotten you're even there." Jack knows he has to walk away - he's done it before. But this time it's harder than it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cappuccino and Bacon Rolls

You try not to go there too often. You know it's not healthy, and you have an inkling that Gwen knows exactly what you're doing on the days when you take off at ten thirty without an explanation.

You slouch lower in the chair and lift the corner of your newspaper a little higher. It's a bit of a cliché and about as covert as wearing a t-shirt with "I'm stalking my ex-lover" printed on it, but he's not expecting anyone to be watching him - why would he?

On warm days, he sits outside at one of the rickety tables that the owner thinks lends a Mediterranean air to this slightly tatty Cardiff café. But it's not warm today. The clouds are tumbling across the sky, whipped by a cold, racing wind from the northeast. He snags a table by the window though, so he can at least see what it is he's missing when he's holed up in that grey, boring office building of his across the road.

He works in insurance now, which you think is kind of ironic, because in a way, that's what he was in before, only with much higher stakes. He thinks Lisa died in a terrorist attack on London and that he spent a year travelling to get over her loss before coming back to Cardiff and resuming his career. He thinks he got headhunted for his current position eight months ago. He thinks he's getting on with his life. He thinks he's pretty happy, considering.

The waitress, who's forty if she's a day, walks across to the table with a sway that was probably her meal ticket in the eighties. "Morning, Ianto. Bit blowy out there today, eh? What can I get you?"

"Cappuccino please, Maria, and a bacon roll."

"That'll warm you up quick enough," she says with a cheeky grin that puts your teeth on edge. She's almost old enough to be his mother and not even in his league. You don't listen to the little voice that reminds you that you've been around long enough to be his grandfather to the nth power.

She shimmies off to the kitchen, and you take a slow sip of your bad coffee.

Cappuccino and a bacon roll - now that's the best metaphor for Ianto you've heard in a long while. You don't have to scratch too far beneath the street-wise, man-of-the-world veneer to find the boy who shared a bedroom with his older brother until he was eighteen, and who comes from a village so obscure that not even Welsh people can pronounce the name. He always had this touch of groundedness about him, no matter how much he experienced or how proficient he got.

You watch him as he sheds his overcoat and pulls out a magazine from his inside pocket. Looks like a holiday brochure. He sits down to flatten it and begins to read. He looks good. His hair is a little messy from the wind and he looks healthy and full of energy, his knee bouncing under the table as he waits for his coffee. He has both forearms leaned on the tabletop, and his whole attention is taken by his reading material, so it's safe to indulge yourself a little.

He's put on a little weight, and it suits him - he looks more like the man who followed you around like a puppy until you gave him a job. Was that really only three years ago?

"Get you something else, love?"

You startle at Maria's unmelodic tones right beside you, and realise that this is why; this is exactly why you had to do what you did. Distraction. Inattention. You can't afford it. It makes you indecisive. It makes you vulnerable. If you're worrying about him, you're not worrying about the bigger picture.

You had to choose.

You look down to see that your cup is empty. "Yeah, another coffee, please?" you ask, tossing her a winning, if distracted smile out of habit. She smiles back, her eyes flicking tactlessly to where Ianto's sitting, before coming back to your face.

You let your expression cool, a subtle warning that this is not the moment to try her hand at comedy, but she seems uncowed. She walks away with a slight smirk, and you look back toward the window.

He's looking directly at you, and just for a second you're completely disarmed.

That's the guy you love sitting over there with no clue who you are. You know things about him that no one else knows. You've kissed every inch of his body, you've mapped every imperfection on his skin, every curve, every angle. You've seen him broken, scared, aroused, excited, happy and sad. You've fought and fucked and stood side-by-side no matter what life had to throw at you. You miss him so hard, it's like a physical ache, like you've lost an arm or an eye - something necessary, something you depend on.

You know you shouldn't be here - you've been though all this a dozen times before. Other lovers. Other lives. It hurts like hell and then you move on. So what's gone wrong this time? Why now? Why here? Why him? You know it's almost sick the way you keep tabs on his life since you cut him loose. But you can't help it.

You can't help it.

He looks at you with a slightly puzzled expression - like he can't quite place you, and all the hairs on the back of your neck tingle. Time seems to slow to the consistency of honey - thick and viscous. He licks his lips and takes a breath, and you should go. You should definitely get up and go right now, but he might just say something you remember from before, or he might ask you to join him, or he might say your name.

An abrasive, squawking ring distracts him and he looks away. It's like a light turning off - his attention turning instantly elsewhere. He digs in his pocket for his mobile, reads the caller ID and smiles.

"Rob, hi. Yeah, yeah. Sounds good…"

He doesn't know you. He doesn't remember you. He's forgotten you're even there.

It's like something under your ribs loosens and you can breathe again because your chest is suddenly hollow. Once again the annoying, indistinct sound of the radio intrudes, along with the smell of bacon and the stuffy atmosphere of this small, quiet café.

"Here you go."

Another cup of poor coffee is placed in front of you, and the smell of it turns your stomach.

"Can I get that to go?" you say. You fold your newspaper and fumble in your wallet for the money while the disgruntled Maria takes your coffee and finds a paper cup to pour it into.

You give her a grin as you take the too hot coffee and slap down a fiver. You salute her with your rolled up paper. Her eyes go wide as she calculates her tip, and you walk away with a spring in your step.

"… no, I should be away by six… ha, yeah… I'll be there about seven then, yeah?"

Rob Mitchell. Six foot. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Thirty-four years old. Works in IT for an international bank. Drives a new, black VW Touareg. Likes old movies, good coffee, travel, Italian food, sleeping in on Sundays and Ianto Jones.

"… okay. I'll get some on the way over. See you later. Bye."

The door clicks closed behind you, and a gust catches you at once, bitter and unforgiving. You look left and right, then turn into the wind, your eyes tearing up from the cold.

Fin.


End file.
